


The Truth Of You

by Imoshen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Bond AU - Freeform, Knives, M/M, MI6 Agent Hannibal, MI6 employee Will, Oral Sex, Will may have a danger kink, talk of treason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imoshen/pseuds/Imoshen
Summary: In Rome's ancient underworld, secrets are revealed.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 100





	The Truth Of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silvaxus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvaxus/gifts).



> First foray into the Hannibal fandom. I haven't watched the show properly in ages xD but Silva threw inspiration at me and well, this happened.

Will Graham winces and curses as glass shatters behind them, spraying the corridor with shards. “Fuck!”

“Faster,” the man running behind him grunts, quite obviously completely unbothered by the fact they are being chased by men with automatic rifles who seem very intent on making sure they both end up very dead.

Just more evidence for Will’s pet theory concerning the sanity and survival instincts of the Double-Oh program’s members.

Will winces when the next huge window shatters under a hail of gunfire, but adrenaline is his friend. He puts on a burst of speed and some God, somewhere, is apparently on their side because the narrow, iron door leading into Rome’s catacombs is unlocked. He squeezes through the narrow entrance, holds the door open just long enough for the agent to follow, then slams it shut and gasps in a much-needed breath.

It’s much darker in this narrow room than it was outside, and Will needs a moment for his eyes to adjust. When he can see more than darkness and colorful spots, he glares at his companion. “How the fuck is your suit still that perfect?”

“Practice,” Agent Hannibal Lecter drawls, an amused smirk playing around his mouth. His obviously expensive-as-all-shit suit isn’t even creased, still sitting perfectly on his shoulders. The silky fabric shimmers a dull grey in the half-light of the narrow landing. He’s not even looking up at Will, instead checking over his gun with quick movements of his hands. “Come on, we need to move. There is more than one entrance into the catacombs, and I really do not fancy a gunfight down there.”

Will thinks of the chances for bullets ricocheting and hitting either him or Lecter. It takes all his professional pride to suppress a shudder. “Who is following us, anyway? And how did they find us?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, but Will has been in close quarters with the agent long enough to be able to interpret the very subtle change in his expression. (He’s not an accomplished profiler for nothing and making a study of the Double-Oh agents has been a hobby for _years_. Well. He’s been studying _one_ Double-Oh for years. Nobody needs to know that, though.)

“They’re not here for any secrets of Queen and Country,” he realizes. “They were here for you.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch in a minor show of annoyance. “I am not your project, Dr. Graham.” His words are clipped, but Will isn’t fooled.

“Considering I was just shot at with the intention of making me very dead, Agent Lecter, I beg to differ.”

He doesn’t get an answer. Instead, Hannibal makes a short motion towards the narrow, winding staircase leading further down. “After you. Climb down until you reach the metal door painted red, then turn left and wait for me.”

The climb down the stairs feels surreal. It’s Rome, in June, so it’s almost unbearably hot at first. The air cools the further down he climbs, and it’s a jolt when he realizes the stairs under his feet have become smooth, worn down with age and many feet walking up or down. The lights get fewer and dimmer, less modern. The stairwell itself becomes narrower until Will’s shoulders almost brush the wall to either side. He’s not claustrophobic, but he can’t allow himself to think about being discovered here by people who’d shoot at them both. There is nowhere to take cover.

The red door is a relief when it appears just off the stairs. Will squeezes himself into the narrow landing and flinches when Hannibal follows close behind. The agent’s steps had been so quiet he hadn’t noticed he was so close behind.

Will can’t quite see how Hannibal opens the door, but he hears the sound of metal on metal, then a very quiet electronic _beep_ and locks sliding back. He frowns, wondering why exactly a door in Rome’s ancient cellars would be this well secured – then there’s a hand closing around his upper arm, guiding him forward and into inky blackness.

It only lasts seconds before gentle light flares up, a series of tiny lights set into the floor. They illuminate walls in a soft beige, distinctly different from the rough, old brick outside. Will stares as more lights come on, revealing what is not just a room, but almost a whole goddamn _loft_ hidden beneath Rome’s streets. The furniture consists of a wide sofa and a low armchair, something that looks to be art but could just be red and black paint someone threw at a canvas, and a thick, shaggy rug covering the floor. Will can make out a bathroom behind a matte glass wall and he guesses there’s a kitchen somewhere he can’t yet see. The bedroom is obvious, the bed a huge, luxurious thing partitioned off by a thick curtain that looks to be silk.

The whole thing looks like the kind of money you don’t make even in MI-6. Not as a Double-Oh, at least.

Will whirls and stares at Lecter, who raises an eyebrow at him. There’s that tiny smile lurking around his mouth again, the one Will never knows what exactly he wants to do with. (He wants to kiss it off Hannibal’s face, but he’s not admitting that.)

He doesn’t even have to ask, _what the fuck, Hannibal_. In his mind, a thousand images spin and coalesce into a new whole, a picture that is close to showing the Hannibal of before – but not quite. There’s a dark shadow there, now, and it’s one Will can see _into_.

“Russia?” he asks softly, then smirks when Hannibal looks almost insulted. “Didn’t think so. That would’ve been to bloody obvious. No, you’re not a double agent for another country. You don’t fit the profile.”

“I’m not, no.” Hannibal sounds almost proud as he watches Will consider and discard options. “You would be surprised how many so-called _allies_ have use for Britain’s secrets.”

Will licks his lips, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth is. He knows Hannibal has his gun, he can guess the agent has other weapons hidden on his body. Will has a single gun, no spare ammunition, and while he’s competent with a gun (nobody who works for Six isn’t, even the secretaries) he knows Hannibal is better.

“Those men,” he murmurs. “They weren’t after _us_ as in, MI-6 _us_. They were after _you_. That was… private.”

The tiny smile around Hannibal’s mouth deepens. Something in his expression has Will’s gut clench in instinctive fear. (It _is_ fear, he tells himself. Nothing else. He is locked in, in a subterranean room, with a man whose secret he just discovered. A secret that would have him disappear and quite probably be executed quietly if he informed anyone. As he should. That clench, that tingle down his spine that has his heartbeat pick up and his muscles tense is fear.)

“Very good, Dr. Graham,” Agent Lecter purrs. “Come along. If I am to play host, I should mind my manners and offer you the contents of the fridge. Italian necessities only, I am afraid.”

Will swallows again, realizes he has no way out and also just ran for his life in Rome’s June heat. Something to drink is probably a good idea.

Italian necessities are, apparently, wine and olives. There is a kitchen, and a pantry, and a part of Will wonders exactly what kind of bolt-hole this is. The far greater part of him is busy watching Agent Hannibal Lecter cook. Discarded suit jacket, rolled-up shirtsleeves… the knife holster along his forearm is visible now, the slim blade still inside. Will knew about the gun holster, of course. What he didn’t know was that it also holds another knife.

There’s no question the man who’s busy cooking is also still lethal as ever, so Will blames the wine on an empty stomach for the question that his mouth asks without first consulting his brain.

“What kind of secrets _are_ you selling, then?”

Hannibal turns his head to look at him, an eyebrow raised. “I would have thought you’d work that out on your own, Dr. Graham.”

Will swallows, but he’s not bleeding out on the floor yet. He counts that as a plus. “I’m impatient,” he offers. “Also, I don’t exactly have access to my databanks right now.”

Hannibal goes back to cutting dried tomatoes at astonishing speed. “You make a good point,” he admits. “Very well. Do you remember that charming joint mission with our _friends_ from America?”

Will nods. He’d been consulted on the choice of agents by M, had actually been the one to recommend Lecter over Bond. Hannibal tended to work better in teams – as long as nobody truly pissed him off. “I remember you weren’t too happy to leave our target with them, considering they were most likely to send him right back out to stir up more civil wars in the East.”

Hannibal smiles. It’s not a nice expression at all, and one Will has only seen on grainy surveillance camera footage before. Usually, the people who see it end up very dead, very soon. “Several people in my acquaintance were rather interested in the gentleman’s whereabouts. I happened to be in a position to provide that information. I was tempted to do it for a far lower price than was offered, I admit. Not quite to my standards, but I loathe war mongers.”

Will hums and eats an olive, less because he wants it and more because he needs to think, and his earlier question proved he should probably take it easier on the wine until he’s had something more to eat. “I take it that was an outlier.”

A soft, amused sound. “It depends on the secret and the interested party,” Hannibal tells him over the sizzling of garlic and onions meeting hot oil in a pan. Will can’t stop his amused snort.

“So if the outcome amuses you, the price is your secondary concern.”

That earns him an actual, honest-to-God grin, but no reply. Will doesn’t need one, the picture he had of Hannibal in his mind changing and evolving as the new information falls into place. He recalls past missions and reconsiders them in light of his new knowledge, adds in information other agents provided.

The full picture, once it emerges, is… _interesting_.

A plate is set down in front of him, and the delicious smell shakes Will from his thoughts. _Italian necessities_ apparently also mean pasta. “Thank you,” he offers, truly grateful. Running and thinking has made him hungry. Hannibal offers another of those small smiles, setting down a second plate for himself.

Will considers his re-constructed image of Hannibal as he eats, and how he, himself, might fit into it. He doesn’t speak until their plates are empty and Hannibal is busy with cleaning them in the sink. (Agent Hannibal Lecter, his hands wet with sudsy water, at such a mundane task as washing dishes is a sight to behold.)

“You knew you were walking into a set trap today,” he murmurs, leaning against the counter next to Hannibal. He has a dish towel ready and waiting for the first plate, but right now his thoughts are far from dishes. His gaze doesn’t stray from Hannibal’s face. “In fact, you counted on it. You made sure this place was stocked accordingly. Pasta and dried tomatoes might be something one can stock for quite some time, but fresh garlic and onions? The cream for the sauce? Those were fresh.”

Hannibal pauses in washing the pan and sips his wine. The hilt of the blade strapped to his forearm glints in the light, a reminder of how dangerous he is. “Or maybe I have someone come by and re-stock regularly.”

Will can feel himself smile. Hannibal is _playing_. “Nobody but you – and now me – know this place exists. You made sure everyone involved in its construction is unable to betray the location. You’re too thorough to leave that kind of trail behind even in your professional work, where people exist to clean up behind you if necessary. If you left it behind in something like this, you wouldn’t be the man I know you to be.”

Hannibal’s smile widens. He sips his wine again, then licks a gleaming red droplet off his lower lip. “High praise indeed, Dr. Graham. Is there a point to follow?”

Will needs a second to regroup his thought processes, his mind insisting on replaying the way that droplet of wine clung to Hannibal’s lip. “My point,” he finally says after a sip of his own, “is that you intended to bring me here. You intended me to be present when the trap was sprung – I hope you counted on me being fast enough to not end up shot in the process.”

Hannibal makes a noise Will would call a snort in anyone else. “Please,” he drawls. “You may hide behind your Doctor title and your profiler job, but you are so much more than that.”

Will blinks and fights down his blush. He had no idea he’d been studied so closely in return. The pan being handed over for drying gives him time to consider his next sentence. “What I haven’t quite worked out is _why_ you intended me to be here,” he admits. “We will have to leave this room and report in within the expected timeframe or risk the activation of our embedded trackers. Or, at least, _my_ embedded trackers. You are as likely to have removed yours since the last time it was implanted as every other Double-Oh. There is nothing stopping me from sharing my recent discovery with M.”

Hannibal hums and sets down a clean plate, waiting to be dried off. His body language remains relaxed, though. Will knows the difference, even if nobody else would be able to spot it. “I _could_ just kill you,” he says mildly. “We _were_ just shot at. I’m sure some sort of surveillance footage could be acquired. Not too hard to arrange a gunshot wound in the appropriate location. You died from internal bleeding before I was able to escape our pursuers and reach a hospital.”

Will’s heart picks up its pace. “Since I am reasonably certain I wasn’t anywhere close to discovering your… extracurricular activities,” he notices the amused twitch of Hannibal’s lips at his choice of phrase, “there was no reason to arrange such a situation to dispose of me. Which must then mean you had a good reason to risk having to kill me. You must know I am one of the voices in your favor regarding your standing with M… and those who are above M.”

Hannibal’s eyes gleam, he’s obviously pleased with Will. He wants to bask in that and isn’t quite sure why – or why he shouldn’t, anymore. His world, his footing, is in flux, shifting beneath his feet like quicksand. Will can’t tear his gaze from Hannibal’s face, regardless.

“I have seen you, Will,” Hannibal purrs. His voice is low, like smoke over suede. His given name in that voice, the first time _ever_ Hannibal addressed him so informally. Will suppresses a shiver, remains rooted in place as Hannibal turns to face him. His gaze is intense, capturing. “I have seen you all these years. I have seen the battles you’ve fought with polite words and sharp intelligence, and I have seen your advice be ignored time and again. You could be so much more than their leashed pet. You see patterns like nobody else, Will. You _understand_ people, understand how they work, _why_ they work. You see where they go wrong, and yet they ignore you, time and again. I would not ignore you. I would _listen_.”

Will blinks, then sucks in a sharp breath as cold metal brushes his throat. “Or,” Hannibal whispers, his voice as steady as the hand holding the blade, “I could just kill you.”

Will breathes and holds that dark gaze. He knows the time for calculations is past, knows Hannibal has _seen_ him in a way that goes beyond the polite façades they each present to the world.

There is no reason left to lie to himself, anymore. There is nothing that will satisfy Hannibal now, nothing but the truth and Will feels light with the knowledge. He allows himself to _feel_ the frustration of being ignored, of seeing mistakes made that cost lives and resources that _shouldn’t be lost_ , allows himself to feel the rage he’s always locked away when war mongers and terrorists were allowed to walk free because they were _useful_. He steps forward, trusting Hannibal in a way he isn’t sure he has ever trusted anyone else. The pressure against his skin doesn’t vanish, doesn’t lessen, but the blade doesn’t cut, either. Will knows how sharp it is, knows how narrow the margin for error is.

“You could,” he agrees, and watches Hannibal’s eyes darken. It feels daring to reach out, but the silk of Hannibal’s shirt is cool against Will’s palms as he rests his hands on his shoulders, then warms with the contact. Will swallows and leans forward until he _knows_ his breath brushes Hannibal’s lips. “But you won’t. You already know what my answer will be… Hannibal.”

He can feel the shudder going through the other man when he calls him by his given name. It feels strangely fitting. Dr. Will Graham isn’t here, _Will_ is. Agent Hannibal Lecter isn’t here, either. This is _Hannibal_ , the man who plays so many games everyone else would be dizzy with it – and who _wants_ to be seen by Will. (Alright, maybe Dr. Graham isn’t entirely gone. He can’t help it.)

Later, Will won’t be able to say who made the first move.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that the knife is suddenly gone from his throat, and instead Hannibal’s mouth is on his, hot, hungry, real… _finally_.

It’s as if a spark was set to a fuse. It sounds horribly cliché, but Hannibal has no other words for the sensation spreading inside than fucking wildfire. Will’s hands are still gripping his shoulders, and Hannibal uses his free hand to grip Will’s shirt, haul him in closer. He wants to rip Will’s clothes from his body, claim him the way the predator living under his skin demands… but he’s still in control, if barely. There’ll be time to tear Will’s clothes off later. For now…

Breaking the kiss earns him a protesting groan, Will trying to follow him and continue the kiss. Hannibal uses the dull edge of the blade against his throat to stop him, smirks when Will’s eyes darken, his pupils expanding rapidly. He can feel the erection against his hip harden further even with all that fabric between them.

“I want you in my bed, Will,” he breathes, watches Will lick his lips. “Naked and spread out on your back.”

A soft sound leaves Will, and he nods. When Hannibal releases him, he goes – _obediently_ , and Hannibal grits his teeth and clings to his control with all he has. Will slips out of his clothes and stretches out on Hannibal’s bed utterly shameless, raises an eyebrow in silent challenge as his gaze travels up and down Hannibal’s still-clothed body. Hannibal laughs and saunters closer, sets his knife down within easy reach before he starts stripping his own clothes off. “If you want a show, you’ll have to make a better bargain,” he informs Will, but he’d be lying if he claimed he didn’t enjoy the hungry gaze taking in every bit of skin revealed. He’s never been ashamed of his body, but Will’s open appreciation feels better than any other nameless man or woman he’s ever seduced for the job, for some private amusement. None of them _knew_ him. Will does, sees all of him, and it’s obvious he wants him.

Hannibal climbs onto his bed, crawls on top of Will and takes both his wrists, pins them above Will’s head. “Keep them there,” he murmurs. Will doesn’t answer, but when Hannibal releases his wrists, his hands stay where they are.

He’s not patient enough to take his time with Will, not this time. Not with victory singing sweet in his veins. Will gasps when Hannibal’s slicked-up fingers circle his entrance before one slides in, but he doesn’t tense. Instead, his body relaxes beneath Hannibal, his head tilting back to offer his vulnerable throat. It’s more of a temptation than Hannibal knows to resist. His teeth draw soft little moans from Will’s throat as he works him open, leave red marks that aren’t nearly as deep as Hannibal wants them to be.

Will is hot and slick around his fingers, taking them greedily, easily, and Hannibal very consciously does not think about who might have had Will like this before him. Instead, he sucks a deeper mark into Will’s neck just above his collarbone, where it will be hidden by his shirts, and pushes in with three fingers, spreading them wide to hear Will moan.

“You sound like a whore,” he purrs into Will’s ear, feels the shiver going through him.

“You couldn’t afford me,” Will gasps out, spreading his legs further in invitation despite his words. “Come on, Hannibal, I’m not some blushing virgin.”

“Don’t remind me,” Hannibal growls, nips at the mark again. “You’re mine now.”

“Then prove it!” Will snarls, clenching around Hannibal’s teasing fingers. “Take me!”

Even with his hands held in place by Hannibal’s order and Will’s compliance, naked and spread open around three of Hannibal’s fingers, he’s still perfectly willing and capable of challenging him. Hannibal grins, fierce joy in his blood. He chose well.

Pushing into Will is as close to heaven as Hannibal figures he’s going to get. Wet, clinging heat accompanied by the low, _aching_ groan from Will’s throat… he grits his teeth and holds still until Will bucks up, snarls at him to “ _Move_ , you bastard, fuck me!”

Control snaps. Hannibal growls, pins Will’s hands to the bed and starts to move, setting a hard, deep pace. Will moans and surges up beneath him, wraps one leg around Hannibal and moves with him, eyes wide open, lust-blown pupils and all.

It doesn’t last long, not with how wound up they both are, with how _perfect_ Will is around Hannibal’s cock. The surge of heat takes him by surprise regardless, bowls him over with its strength. He’s dimly aware of sinking his teeth into Will’s shoulder as he comes, of the hissed “fuck yes!” against his ear.

It takes a moment before he’s willing to move, to push himself up and look down at Will. He can feel his erection against his belly, but Will makes no move to touch himself, merely looks up at Hannibal in a silent challenge. Hannibal grins, ignores the disappointed noise Will makes when he pulls out of his hole, and shifts to settle between his partner’s knees.

“Feel free to scream for me,” he purrs before he pushes back into Will’s hole with three fingers and swallows his cock.

Will does scream for him when he comes down his throat. Hannibal counts it a win.

The cotton sheets are soft and cool against Will’s heated skin, Hannibal a warm weight against his back. The arm thrown over Will’s waist isn’t exactly a hug, but it’s possessive and comfortable and Will sees no reason to protest.

“We still need to check in,” he murmurs, lazy and sated and entirely unwilling to get out of bed and go back to the world.

“Hmm,” Hannibal agrees. Warm lips brush over the deep bitemark on his shoulder, and Will shivers. “We still have eight hours.” The arm over his side shifts, Hannibal’s hand comes to rest on Will’s belly. “I want you to ride me next, Dr. Graham.”

Will moans at the mere thought. “You’ll be the death of me, Agent Lecter.”

(A nap later, Will _does_ ride Hannibal, slow and deep. Another nap later, he fucks Hannibal against the wall of the shower. They make it back just in time to check in.)


End file.
